In the night
by Dragonbread
Summary: Sherlock comes into John's room the night after they face the hound, looking for comfort, and maybe something more...
1. Chapter 1

John was running through the darkness, stumbling his way through the forest racing as fast as his tired legs would take him. He glanced over his shoulder, and the beast was right behind him, all blood red eyes and fangs…he tried to run faster, but he felt like he was stuck in gelatin…with a bloodcurdling howl, the hound leapt for his throat…

John bolted upright, gasping. A nightmare, it was only a nightmare…the hound wasn't real, they'd proven that. But the drug—the drug was probably still in his system, of course. And the moors had always given him the chills. There was no way he was going to get back to sleep now, not in this creaky little bed in this little inn.

There was a footstep outside the door, and John huddled lower under the covers, terrified. The door started to open, and he shrieked, grabbing the lamp from the bedside table and swinging it toward the shadowy figure entering the door. But just as it was about to connect, he heard a familiar voice saying his name.

"John!" Sherlock whispered. "John, it's me."

John put the lamp back on the table, and then slumped back against the wall, his heart racing. "Oh."

Sherlock came in the rest of the way and shut the door behind him, looking at the terrified figure on the other side of the room. This had been a risk, coming in here, but so far it seemed like it might pay off. "I thought you might be awake."

John nodded. "I couldn't sleep, after that."

"Neither could I," he said wryly. He rarely slept. "Look, John," Sherlock took a step forward, "I wanted—" No, that was coming out wrong. Sometimes he hated the way John muddled up his perfectly ordered mind. He couldn't very well apologize for something John didn't know he'd done, could he? That would only get him in more trouble.

John looked up at him incredulously. "There's a new one: Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words."

Now it was time to resort to acting. "Maybe I'm tired."

"Of course you're bloody tired—when was the last time you slept? I'm bloody tired, I can tell you that. Too tired to put up with you and your cryptic conversations." John sat down on the edge of the bed.

"But too disturbed to sleep."

"That doesn't mean I have to listen to you at this hour of the night! Don't you have your own room?" John's tone was angry, but Sherlock noted the dilation of his pupils, which seemed to indicate a slightly different response.

Sherlock stepped forward and sat on the bed next to him. This was the leap. "I thought perhaps we'd have a greater chance of getting to sleep if we weren't alone."

John's eyes widened. "Sherlock…"

"Just to help you sleep. You're no fun when you get irritable."

"People will talk."

"People are already talking."

John opened his mouth as if to object again, and then shrugged.

They lay down together, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. They fit together remarkably well.

John snuggled into him, already half-asleep. "Thank you," he said.

When John woke up the next morning, he was alone in the bed. He would have thought he'd dreamed the whole thing, except for the foreign sock that was draped across his ankle. It was definitely one of Sherlock's… he vaguely remembered waking later in the night and finding himself entwined in Sherlock's legs.

He got ready as quickly as he was able, and went down to get breakfast. Sherlock was in the main room of the inn, reading a paper.

John held up the sock. "You forgot something." His tone was slightly harsher than intended.

Sherlock's eyes widened and the narrowed. "Thank you."

He took the sock and walked up the stairs. John went to an outside table to await his breakfast. It had just arrived when Sherlock came out with a cup of coffee.

"So they didn't have it put down, then. The dog." He said, turning away slightly—trying to act nonchalant?

"Perhaps they just couldn't bring themselves to do it." John cut into his breakfast, his tone as indifferent as Sherlock's had been. He was a little miffed that they weren't talking about it, but a larger bit relieved.

"I see," Sherlock said, still standing and looking the other way.

John shook his head, more than a little exasperated. "No, you don't."

Sherlock shook his head too, finally turning to look at John. "No, I don't. Sentiment?"

"Sentiment." John agreed, and Sherlock finally sat down. They looked at each other, and John couldn't wait any longer to voice the small nagging thought he'd been harboring since the day before. "Listen, what happened to me in the lab…"

"Do you want some sauce with that?" Sherlock interrupted.

John ignored him and continued. "I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things, in there? Fear and stimulus, you said."

"You must have been dosed with it elsewhere. Lab maybe. You saw those pipes. Pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve. They were carrying the gas, so… Ketchup, was it? Or brown…" Sherlock was obviously trying to avoid talking about it. Or maybe he was just nervous talking to John at all.

"Hang on—you thought it was in the sugar. You were convinced it was in the sugar."

"Better get going, actually. There's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want—"

"Oh, God," John interrupted his rambling with a sickening realization. "It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab."

"I had to. It was an experiment." Sherlock gave him just a hint of that puppy dog look, the one that said _I'm-sorry-I-know-I-did-wrong-but-I-knew-you'd-forgive-me_. Which, of course, he always did.

"An _experiment?"_ John shouted.

"Shh!"

"I was terrified, Sherlock, I was scared to death!"

The look intensified. "I thought the drug was in the sugar so I put the sugar in your coffee. Then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore. All totally scientific, Laboratory conditions—quite literally."

John sighed, imagining Sherlock sitting in some safe little room, watching him losing his head. But he couldn't resist that face for long.

"I knew what effect it had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one."

John set down his fork and glared at him, although he couldn't quite maintain the intended level of anger.

"You know what I mean."

John resumed eating. "But it wasn't in the sugar."

"No, well," Sherlock said, waving a hand. "How was I to know you'd already been exposed to the gas?"

"So you got it wrong." Oh, John was having fun with this. He'd already forgiven Sherlock, but now not only did he get to keep Sherlock apologizing (for the second time in one weekend) but he also got to point out a flaw in his friend's "superior intellect". "You were wrong. It wasn't in the sugar, you got it wrong."

"A bit. Won't happen again."

John kept his face still, but inside he was grinning. He went back to his breakfast, and Sherlock drank his coffee. Then a thought struck him. "…any long term effects?"

Sherlock shook his head. "None at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it, we all will."

"I think I may have taken care of that already," John replied, unable to keep the smile off his face completely.

Sherlock grinned and snorted, looking off into the distance. John found his mind drifting back to the night before, how it had felt to have this man's arms wrapped around him.

Sherlock stood suddenly.

"Where are you going?"

"Won't be a minute. I've got to see a man about a dog." He smirked.

John watched him walk away, wondering how long it would be before he got to feel that sensation again.


	2. Chapter 2

They were both quiet on the train ride home, still a bit shaken by the events of the weekend. John was torn between his frustration at Sherlock crossing a line with his experiments—yet again—and the strangely warm-fuzzy feelings he got whenever his mind went back to Sherlock sleeping beside him. His face when he'd come into John's room—such vulnerability. John wasn't sure, but looking back it seemed as though Sherlock was _nervous_ about something. Sherlock Holmes, nervous—about John? Perhaps he wasn't the only one who'd needed a little good-old-fashioned human comfort last night.

John thought about what other kinds of ...human comfort… he might like to give Sherlock. This entire relationship so far had been an experiment in the fluidity of sexual orientation, hadn't it? His cries of "I'm not gay!" were starting to sound a little weaker around the edges, and after that encounter with Irene Adler, well, if Sherlock were to offer, John certainly wouldn't say no. The man possessed a strange ethereal beauty that the good doctor had trouble resisting even without the man climbing into bed with him.

•••

Sherlock watched John the whole ride home, trying to gauge his reaction. He'd run left before John had awoken that morning, not wanting to deal with the probable fallout, and then at breakfast John had been distracted by the experiment with the sugar… there was no way for Sherlock to know what John thought of last night. He'd clearly been upset all morning, but that could easily be explained by other stimuli. The train yielded little new information. It seemed that John was deep in the midst of some internal struggle, but John was became internally conflicted about such trivial things that that was no real indication (the small irrational part of Sherlock's brain suggested that perhaps John was conflicted about his feelings for Sherlock, and that since the man was a self-reported heterosexual that was most likely a good sign). He still wasn't sure whether to call this experiment a failure or a success when they arrived back to Baker Street.

Disappointment grew in the pit of his stomach as he watched john immediately start up the stairs toward his bedroom. "John!" he called without thinking.

John turned to look at him, surprise plain on his face. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"I—could you make me a cup of tea?" he scrambled for an excuse. "You do it so much better than I do, and they only had coffee in that little inn."

John gave him a tired smile. "Alright. Just give me a minute to put my bag down."

Sherlock nodded, content in the knowledge that John would be coming back. This feeling of needing John near was getting stronger. He'd noticed it a month or so ago, and it had just continued building. He wasn't sure what it was—he had never felt anything like it. This strange, irrational feeling that when he wasn't with John, something was wrong. That he needed John to be safe as much—if not more—than he needed to be safe himself. It made no sense whatsoever. And that coupled with the definite attraction he felt toward the other man served to provide a rather large distraction. He needed more data.

•••

John came down the stairs and walked into the kitchen, placing the kettle on the stove. He'd intended to just go right to bed—it was only 20:00, but he was tired—but Sherlock had been so…adorable? He'd stuttered—when he'd asked John for the tea that there had been no way to refuse. Even if it meant that now they would probably have to talk, and he was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to avoid mentioning last night any longer.

He finished making the tea and brought the tea to Sherlock, who was sitting on the sofa. He sat down beside him, his own cup of tea in hand.

Sherlock gave him a long glance before pulling his legs up onto the sofa and leaning on his shoulder. "Thank you, John."

John was surprised, but not displeased—or overly hopeful. He knew better than to think this meant something—Sherlock didn't understand the concept of personal space. He just let the other man rest there, and took a sip of tea. "You're welcome, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled contentedly and his eyes drifted closed. It wasn't long before John felt his breathing deepen and slow. He smiled down at his best friend and stood carefully, placing a pillow in the space his body had just vacated and grabbing a spare quit to drape over the sleeping man's shoulders. He got ready for bed as quietly as he could, and then it wasn't long before he, too, was unconscious.

•••

Sherlock awoke in the dark and for an instant he didn't know where he was. Then last night came rushing back to him—John must have been terribly irritated with him. But then he sat up and noticed the blanket, and pillow. Those were good signs, were they not? He climbed the stairs cautiously—two nights in a row was pushing his luck, he knew. But it felt like there was a string reeling him in, and then he was in John's room, lying down beside him, wrapping his arms around—and then we was asleep again.

•••

John woke up to a warm body pressed against his back, and a pair or muscled arms wrapped around him. He snuggled into the warmth, noting Sherlock's erection pressed against his leg. Still half asleep, he rolled over and pressed his lips to Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the smell of him… John jolted awake, throwing himself backwards. This was actual Sherlock, in his actual bed—with an actual erection pressing at his tightly tailored trousers.

Sherlock snapped awake too, startling at the movement. "Oh, gods, John, I…"

"What the fuck, Sherlock?"

"I can explain, just—"

"You're in my _bed_! First you sneak in at the inn, and then last night you fall asleep on my shoulder, and now I wake up to your hard-on against my back!"

"I don't know what's happening to me, John! You have to help me, I can't…I can't sleep without you. I can't stand being without you, John, there must be something wrong with me." Sherlock's eyes were wide, scared.

John felt like someone had just dropped a ton of bricks on him. Sherlock Holmes, needing him? For something other than the tea? He laid back down beside him, wrapping an arm lightly around his shoulder. "Sherlock. There's nothing wrong with you."

"But I've been acting irrationally and I don't even know why I do things anymore and I…you…"

John, realizing this was going nowhere, leaned in and pressed his lips to the other man's.

Sherlock's eyes got even wider, and he responded enthusiastically, pressing himself closer, wrapping his leg around John's hip.

John broke away after a second, chuckling slightly. "Calm down a minute. We should probably talk about this."

Sherlock shook his head, burying his face in John's shoulder. "I don't understand. How can I talk about what I don't understand?"

John kissed his forehead. "It's called love, Sherlock, and nobody understands it."

•••

"Love is for the weak." If there was one lesson Mycroft had taught him…

"Well, then, welcome to the club. It's called humanity." John spoke with such certainty.

"Okay, then. Let's say I love you. What else is there to discuss?" He had to admit it was the closest thing he'd ever heard of to what he was feeling…and all he really wanted in that moment was to get back to kissing.

John chuckled again. "Well, I guess that about covers it. I think the rest can wait."

"Good," Sherlock growled, bringing his lips back to John's.

•••

John would look back on those days in the years to come, and he would silently thank that crazy doctor for finally giving Sherlock a reason to come to his bed. If it hadn't been for him, there was no telling how long the detective would have held out against his own desires. All it took was a little fear...to create the best relationship of either of their lives. They were getting married tomorrow (Mycroft had finally gotten gay marriage legalized) and it was all thanks to that first night in Dartmoor.

•••

Sherlock walked down the aisle toward the man he loved, tears running silently down his face. He couldn't believe this was finally happening to him, that he'd found the ove of his life ad was now marrying him. This was insanity, he must be dreaming, or perhaps this was an interesting drug trip…

The vows were said, the rings exchanged, and then the officiate said "you may now kiss your husband" this couldn't be happening, not to him, no one would ever consent to marry him… and then John was kissing him, and it was beautiful, was perfect, and most importantly, was real.

"I love you," John whispered when he pulled away.

"Forever," Sherlock responded, holding his husband tight to his side.


End file.
